


omnia vnvs est

by ElevenGaleStorms



Series: Cave Canem [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assassins vs. Templars, Christopher Gist's son, Dark, Eagle Vision (Assassin's Creed), Eventual Female Anti-Hero, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Historical Character(s), Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prequel, Rule 63, historical events
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-27 03:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12572796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElevenGaleStorms/pseuds/ElevenGaleStorms
Summary: It is often said that people are defined by their circumstances. In one life, the thief you could meet in an dark alley could be an upstanding citizen in the next life. Circumstances is what determines this. For one Arno Dorian, a change in her circumstances sets her on the path that knows no end and only one beginning.[Prequel to Ouroboros]





	1. first things first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, at least, attempted to be historically accurate. A majority of the time I worked on researching for this story was on making sure the historical events lined up with the events of the story (and I also spent a lot of time looking at Girandoni Air Rifles, axe-guns, and sword-fighting techniques). Anyway, I hope you enjoy the chapter!

 

> **_April 20, 1778_ **

Arno struggled to block the daring yet swift strike with her sword. The two weapons clashed together and, before Arno knew what was happening, her sword landed on the ground next to her. Her imaginary opponent made a mocking bow with their sword now sheathed.

The lone female sighed. Sword fighting never was as fun when Elise was not there with her. But, today was the anniversary her friend had lost a parent, and Arno could understand… No, she couldn’t and shouldn’t think about it. Her fists clenched tightly almost to the point of becoming white-

A growl filled the clearing, and Arno looked around only to realize that it was her stomach. Blushing lightly, she coughed with a sheepish look on her face. Elise would have teased her about this if she had been here.

"Time to get something to eat." Arno quietly murmured to herself. The servants and maids never let her eat anything except during meal times.

Her feet crunched on the soft grass, still wet with the morning dew and smelling fresh. There was an apple tree nearby. One problem: Arno couldn't climb. At least not, yet. Another growl came out of her sore stomach, and she winced.

Making her decision, Arno reached out a hand to dig into the rough surface of the bark. Small parts of it crumbled away at her rough touch as she pulled herself up and supported her weight with her legs on the tree.

 _Almost there_ , she thought. The tantalizing image of a beautiful, juicy red apple ready for the picking kept on appearing in her mind. Just as her feet left the ground, a low, guttural growling filled the clearing. Arno paused in her movements.

This time it wasn’t her stomach.

* * *

 Sickly yellow and brown leaves crunched underneath his boots with his every step. The man paused in his footsteps, head tilting slightly. Heavy, leather robes with yellow strips of cloth hanging down underneath them swayed lightly.

Arno’s breath hitched, and her body remained frozen. She had never seen this man before. All Parisians knew never to trust one another especially strangers. The weapons on his person- _the large gun, the sword and dagger, and the pistols_ \- made him even more threatening than the chef that kept on questioning Arno’s status as a legitimate child.

“You can come down, now.” The man suddenly spoke up. His voice was laced with an odd sort of accent, almost song-like in its pronunciation of the English words. A bolt of shock licked up her spine. Her mouth became dry, and she thought over it. Should she trust him? Monsieur De la Serre always warned her against trusting men, especially those with weapons and- _strangely_ -hoods.

Looking down at the man below her, Arno only had one thought: her guardian told her not to trust shady people, so she wouldn’t. A sigh could be heard, and the stranger was now looking directly up at her. His hood fell back from the movement and Arno could soon see his features. The man had dark brown hair tied in a ribbon with several scars on his face, precisely one above his left eye. His lips were set in a firm line, almost a grimace. Scary was an understatement for the man.

“Don’t you want to come down, lass?” She remained seemingly ignorant of the man’s statement. Maybe, she could pass for being deaf and dumb. Yes, that could work. Arno may not be smart or as quick on her feet as Elise, but she knew how to survive and to cope… She shook her head in an attempt to get rid of such thoughts- _why was she thinking this_ \- only to still in horror. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She had just moved in front of the man’s eyes.

The somewhat annoyed look in the man’s eyes told her he was anything but convinced. Now, she knew that… certain words weren’t supposed to be used- _ladies never swear, her governess had scolded_ \- but Arno knew one word that would indeed fit the situation she was in.

“Could you at least tell me your name?” He was visibly trying rein back his emotions. But she knew better. After all, all the facades-all the smiles- everyone put up around her could be seen through with the right set of eyes.

“Arno. Arno Dorian,” she spoke up. The sun was going down in the sky, and the air began to grow colder. Arno knew she couldn’t spend the entire night on the tree. She would fall or slip out of the tree, otherwise. Best to just answer the man and tell him off… politely of course. Arno knew diplomacy and etiquette contrary to her governess and Elise’s beliefs.

Her companion grimaced minutely, and his averted eyes reflected something even she couldn't decipher. “You need to get down, Arno.” he sighed. There was almost something melancholic in his actions and words.

“But the wolf-”

“Will not come,” he finished. The man leaned against the tree with his rifle pressing against the bark.

“I don’t even know your name.” Arno glared down at the man, with her arms crossed and legs on both of the sides of the tree branch. Her lips were pursed firmly together- _a pout, Elise would tease her_ \- and eyes cold.

“Shay Cormac. A friend of your guardian… Master De la Serre, was it?” Arno nodded, “Then that is all you need to know. If you come down now, I won’t tell him about this… incident.” Arno blanched. Monsieur De la Serre… she forgot about how he would react. She wasn’t allowed to wander the estate’s grounds alone-but somehow Elise was entitled to- much less come to the orchard again.

“Very well, Monsieur Cormac.” Arno agreed stiffly, drawing upon the two years of etiquette lessons she received under the De La Serres. Shay smiled briefly before turning his back towards her. Arno nearly stumbled over herself in her haste to catch the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is a prequel to Ouroboros. Arno is 10 years old in this, if my calculations are right... Anyway, I know Arno is mature in this. But I think that after being isolated in the De La Serre Estate and seeing her father's corpse right in front of her would make Arno mature faster. But if you feel that it is still unreasonable, I would welcome constructive criticism. Oh, and one more thing. Feel free to comment! I really appreciate comments and, to be honest, they really help motivate me in writing and posting these chapters. Of course, I would still write and post stories even without comments. But they are very much appreciated. Thanks for reading!


	2. second thing

Arno lightly pressed a hand to voracious stomach. Her face heated as her stomach growled once more and Shay stopped in his tracks.

“I-I’m fine.” she blurted out. A dry smile graced the face of her companion, “I think your stomach would disagree, lass.”

“Hasn’t anyone told you to mind your own business?” she shot back, her voice sharp and brisk. The hunger pangs along with the persistent foreigner did nothing to her mood.

Shay chuckled, “Plenty have done so, few have succeeded.” The vague statement only made the boiling pressure inside her rise. Arno breathed deeply.

“What happened to the wolf?” she asked instead.

“Gone.” It only then did Arno notice the gray strands on Shay’s jacket along with crimson liquid-blood- coating the dark fabric.

Deciding to push her luck with the questions, Arno speaks up, “What are yo-” His hand shot towards her shoulder and gripped her in warning. She flinched and stilled before noticing it was not a threat. Shay’s eyes were fixed on a particular spot in the clearing…

Before she even knew what happened, the all too familiar sound of growling came from the bushes, and Arno knew what exactly Shay was fixed on. In one smooth motion, he removed his rifle from the holster and had the weapon steady and aimed at the spot in a second. The under barrel was fat and full, unusual for its kind.

_BANG!_

Arno visibly recoiled at the deafening sound. It reminded her of the sound of cannon fire during celebrations. Her ears still rang from the sound, and heat along with its dear companion light graced her senses.

“Wait here.” Shay Cormac warned, his tone brisk and somewhat annoyed. And Arno knew that the golden opportunity handed to her had just presented it to herself. As the man ventured further away, Arno inched closer to the vegetation opposite to the sighting of the wolf.

“I think not, Monsieur Cormac.” She whispered to herself, a mischevious smile wounds its way onto her lips. Her body crouched with knees bent, and head tucked down as branches and brambles tried to entangle themselves into the dark brown strands of her hair. Arno spat out a leaf-with the possibility of one thorn being in it onto the muddy, ground below.

Finally, the dense vegetation led the way to something else… The light obscured by the plants slowly unraveled with its rays shining down gloriously. The crisp, summer night air only further convinced Arno that she was heading in the right direction-she had to be correct.

Her fingers dug into the dirt below for purchase and strands of hair clung to the sweat on her forehead. After crawling through the rest of the vegetation, Arno shakily got up.

The De La Serre Estate’s mansion was closeby that Arno could almost see it.

“Move.” That voice-

Arno didn’t even have the chance to do so before being grabbed. A large, callused hand grabbed her by the wrist and jerked her to the left, barely avoiding the frothing mess of fangs and claws rushing at her.

She felt herself be pulled closer and a gun being shot right in front of her face. A resounding yelp pierced the violent silence of the clearing. The smell of gunpowder and tobacco never did seem as strong as it did now.

“You truly shouldn’t wander the woods alone,” The man released her, “The wolves would get to you first.” Arno gave one last cautious glare to her companion.

“Off you go, lass.”

And that was the last she heard of him in years. 

* * *

 “She’s going to have the Sight, sir.”

“Then we will wait,” Shay made a noise in agreement. The girl was too young to take up such a position, “18th birthday, perhaps?”

“If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought this as an-” The unamused glare that the Irishman set on Francois told many words.

“The information, Master de la Serre.” he interrupted.

“Ah, yes. The letter, is it? I’ve heard the news about Grandmaster Kenway. I give you my condolences.” The Templar emblem pinned onto his waistcoat was removed with practice ease and inserted into the keyhole of the cabinet, pin-first.

“Your sentiments are unneeded.” The cold words only emphasized the suddenly frosty tone of Shay Cormac.

“With an attitude like that, I find myself unsure for someone such as yourself to take care of Arno.”

“I assure you,” Shay set both of his hands on the desk in front of him, “I can take care of the girl.” He paused, “I would fret about yourself, Master de la Serre. Allies seem to come in precious commodities and enemies in even greater amounts.”

“Is that a threat?” Francois’ eyes sharpened minutely. The familiarity and warmth in the brown eyes seeped away, leaving one, true Grandmaster.

“Take it as a warning. Enemies are everywhere.”

“Is that why you want her as your apprentice?” Ah, is that what the man thought of him? Shay had survived with a great number of enemies and few allies. Obtaining them mattered little… at least for now.

“My motivations matter little. I will train your ward to become a Templar. That is all.” Not that he would stop the training immediately once Arno joined the Order. No… Francois expected a Templar, but Shay wanted a successor to his legacy.

To himself.

Someday, he would no longer be able to keep the Assassins in check. And then what then?

A successor. Someone with the gift as well as the right mindset.

The instinctual and calculating movements of the young girl he had seen in the clearing implied potential.

“Very well. Best of luck in your ventures, Cormac.”

“And I you,” Shay inclined his head to the Frenchman in acknowledgment, “But I must say… I make my own luck.”

Pulling back his hands and his hood back up, the Assassin Hunter walked out of the study.

Shay Cormac didn’t fail to notice the curious amber orbs watching his every movement. He barely suppressed the chuckle threatening to escape his lips. Francois was worried about his ward not consenting in becoming a Templar. Even the keen man failed to take note of the intelligence and curiosity in Arno Dorian’s eyes.

Ultimately, Shay knew Arno Dorian would join the Templars. What exactly would happen after… was something to be thought of another time.

_“That child will be your downfall, Shay.” Nathaniel had written in a letter to Shay once he heard of his old friend sparing the child._

Perhaps, his friend was right. But Shay had only ever cared about a precious few things in his life. Survival wasn’t one of them.


	3. third things third

 

 

> **_April 18, 1786_ **

She sat alone in a room swathed in darkness. Only the lone candlelight with the wick melting hot wax onto the plate below illuminated her desk. Flowing and elegant script of Elise was evident on letters shown by the candlelight.

Arno didn’t feel despair for Elise missing her birthday. She had only spent two years with Elise, and thus two birthdays-both awkward and formal.

What she did miss were the days of her father’s friends jokingly handing her baguettes throughout the day, and then surprising her at the end with a cake. The sheepish boys that would give her them as one would look guilty while the other’s eyes twinkled mischievously. As much as Arno wanted to say that she didn’t like baguettes that much, she couldn’t find in herself to tell them that…

_“Well,” The three looked at her with anticipation, as the adults nearby chuckled amusedly, “Do you like it?”_

_Arno took one look at the gift in her hands and gave a toothy, beaming smile, “I do!” She held the baguette to her chest, the smell of fresh, baked bread filled her senses. For some reason, a warm feeling in her chest refused to die down._

Her lips twitched lightly. She didn’t know it then, but the reason she felt that way because of the sentiment behind that gift-those baguettes- was worth more to her than a fanciful dress or bouquet of flowers could buy.

The birthdays with the De La Serres were a different story…  
  
“Why didn’t you wear your dress, Arno?” The keen eyes of Monsieur De La Serre bore into her. Arno shifted nervously in her stiff, wooden chair under the scrutiny of her guardian.

“It wasn’t practical for-” Her mouth snapped shut at what she was about to say.

“Yes?” His tone began to express one of slight annoyance and impatience at her words.

“...Climbing trees.” she finished, a part of her already recoiling at the onslaught to come. 

Francois set down his cutlery firmly yet delicately before his eyes connected with hers. “Do try to wear something special on your birthday.” he sighed. Arno would have jumped for joy if not for her guardian’s presence and current mood. He must have been feeling lenient with today being her birthday.

“ _Merci beaucoup._ Monsieur De La Serre.” Arno slowly chewed a piece of the cake. The vanilla flavor accented with the bitter chocolate burst into an unusual yet pleasant sensation in her mouth.

Yet why did the cake seem so empty-even with all its delightful flavors- and her chest feel so hollow inside?

“-has sent a letter for you.”

“I beg your pardon.” she carefully requested. Formalities were still to be used at all times with her guardian. The hard swats to the head further reinforced the practice of exercising formalities with her guardian family at all times.

“A sponsor of yours has sent a letter for you.”

“A sponsor? Who?” Her fork was set down in favor of the conversation at hand. Arno had never heard of any sponsor-after all, why would someone be interested in rumored illegitimate orphan and ward of the De La Serres.

“Someone you will meet quite soon.” The elder man gave a warning glance at Arno, clearly warning her not to push it. He pulled a light; parcel tied together with a thin red ribbon from his frock coat. His hands pushed it across of the table in open invitation.

Her hands excitedly snatched the package and unwrapped it ungraciously, the rough, rudimentary wrapping being torn and scratched in her haste.

“I must teach you about the proper way of unwrapping packages.” For once, Arno ignored the man’s statement and finally managed to get the package unwrapped.

The small box, unopened, housed a light, silver chain with a light green pendant showing… a knot. The two letters, SC, were engraved into the surface of the box.

**_SC_ **

Arno sighed. SC… those initials haunted her every birthday. The mystery of it all knawed at her, as did the insatiable curiosity for the truth. It had only been years later that Monsieur De La Serre finally revealed when she would be meeting her sponsor.

Her 18th birthday. In other words… today. Well not quite, but her guardian had to leave on the day of her actual birthday and today was the only day he was available to "celebrate" Arno's birthday with her.

With her frock coat neatly buttoned together, clothes pristine, and rapier secured on her belt, Arno was ready to meet this sponsor of hers.

* * *

Arno adjusted her waistcoat-the fabric was constricting her breathing suddenly- absently. Her frequent movements tried to mask the anxiety she felt for the events to come.

Her guardian had called her here to meet an acquaintance of his- no doubt her sponsor as well. As she turned the corner of the hallway, Arno noticed an emblem of a crimson cross at the right-hand corner of the tapestry decorating the wall to her right.

Rich, red carpet softened her slow steps. Her eyes roamed the room, looking for the guest and finally landed on one, foreign figure. The man had a rifle strapped to his back as well as weapons secured on his belt and numerous pouches decorating his waist.

Arno sighed. If she had to meet one more obnoxious noble and one of the friends of her guardian-

...And her feet had just stopped right in front of the man. 

“ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur. My name is Arno Dorian.” She nearly paused mid-sentence at the amused smile on the new-comer’s face. 

“Greetings to you as well,” His smile only widened, becoming almost like that of a smirk, “My name is Shay Patrick Cormac, lass.”

The name brought a sense of nostalgia to Arno, “Are you sure we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t believe so.” The look in his eyes told a different story though.

“May I ask what is the manner of your business here, Monsieur Cormac?”

“Call me, Shay. As for what is my business,” He stepped closer to her. Now nearer, Arno could see the scars decorating his neck and parts of his face.

“Well, I came here to make you my apprentice,” Shay leaned back, addressing her guardian, “Isn’t that right, Francois?”

_“...Quoi?”_


	4. last thing last

“And what exactly is your profession?” She questioned. It was certainly surprising that her sponsor would ask such a thing, but not entirely unexpected.

“Merchant,” Shay must have found something amusing his answer as he smirked. Arno wasn’t ashamed to admit that the sinking feeling of disappoint weighed on her chest at that very moment. Merchant… ships-everything that Arno knew was a lost cause for her.

“Ah, Monsieur Cormac, I must-” Francois gave a warning look-be polite-which Arno merely smiled politely, “-respectfully decline your generous request.”

“Don’t like the sea much, lass?”

“That’s an understatement.” she almost blurted out. The frustration of maintaining a polite, calm facade was too much.

“I’m sure we could get you your sea legs.” Did this man have to be so… persistent? And on the celebration of her birth of all days?

“Again, I respectfully decline,” she said dryly to the determined man. Arno turned to face Francois with an expectant look on her face.

She motioned with a slight tilt of her head.

Her guardian merely turned away from her, giving his farewell to Cormac and bidding his leave to them both.

Traitor, she thought bitterly.

“Some things can’t be helped,” he sighed.

“It is pleasant to find something we both agree on,” Arno took several steps back from the man, “I will bid my leave now.” she bid farewell respectfully.

“That sister of yours… what do you know of her?” Arno froze in her tracks, her back still facing the man, “Of her training?” His tone had changed. The almost song-like words with a measure of playfulness turned into calculating, hard words hidden beneath a deceiving layer of nonchalance.

Manipulation, a part of her whispered-how did she know that though-with hurriedness.

“Enough,” Arno said briskly.

“Well, you surely know of her training with her mentor. Combat training along with the training to be the heir to Francois de La Serre.”

“I do.” Somewhat, she silently added. Elise talked little to none about her lessons with her mentor and only showed her skills to Arno during the swordfights they had with sticks as their weapons.

“Don’t you feel envy? Jealousy?”

“Why would I? I am the De La Serre’s ward, not their child.”

“Having to stand in the shadow-no to be the one left with no path in favor of having the more privileged one be favored instead… must be frustrating, is it not?”

“I have accepted my fate, Monsieur Cormac,” Arno stepped closer to the man with a smirk on her lips, “With any luck, you can do the same.”

“I am offering you a way out. That is all I can do, lass.” He stepped forward, brushing past her shoulder before pausing, “And I make my own luck, lass.”

“With that personality of yours, you must do that.” she murmured to herself. The glare she sent his way surely wasn’t noticed by Shay Cormac. But still… that amused smile told a different story.

Arno sighed as she straightened her waistcoat once more. That meeting went horribly as did her “birthday.” First, Francois introduces her to a manipulative merchant-like that was a surprise now thinking back- and then glaring at her for the rest of the day.

“You!” Arno stopped and turned towards the direction of the voice. Her finger pointed questioningly at herself, “Yes! You! Come here, you salope!”

George Martin.

“Monsieur, I am sure we could work something out-” A hand grabbed her cravat roughly before jerking Arno towards him. She scowled at the hideous breath the man was blowing everywhere.

“Have you ever gone to a dentist. If so, I know this-” Arno saw a moving blur… and then stars.

“-just trying to help.” she murmured blearily. Her voice was nasally, but it was difficult to tell considering the pounding in her head. She saw George readying for another hit, and she tensed. Her leg hitched up, ready to be slammed down onto that man’s vulnerable foot.

“Anyone ever told you it isn’t polite to hit ladies?” Arno’s eyes widened at the all too familiar voice.

Shay.

“This isn’t any of your business, cabbage farmer.” Martin’s lips contorted into a sneer, apparently feeling bold even with a flintlock aimed at his head. Arno could have sworn that one of Shay’s eyes twitched minutely at the end.

“Oh, I think it is. Attacking my apprentice is surely my business.” Shay’s grin was almost cutthroat, like that of a shark. The man eyed the rifle on Shay’s back as well as his smile, but even more so the flintlock with a nervous look.

“Do you even know what this woman does-”

“I profit from the betting pools of Paris’s debate societies. I should be arrested for my heinous crimes.” Arno turned to Shay, “There.”

“You heard the lass. She should be arrested.” At Martin’s victorious smirk, he added, “By me. A three-year service under someone such as myself would do this scoundrel some good.”

Arno nearly gaped with her mouth wide open, enough for flies to get in.

Was this man serious?

“You never give up, do you?” she grumbled with a hint of exasperation underlining her words. Yet the words held a soft undertone of resignation.

“Never.”

Arno felt something inside of her just wilt at Shay Cormac’s answer. Why did her sponsor have to be a merchant of all things?

“You’re going to get your sea legs, lass.” Her sponsor-no mentor added with a knowing look in his eyes and that damned smirk on his lips.

“Y-You, cabbage farme-” Her… mentor-should she even call him that?- stalked forward with a defined, apparent intent in his walk. He leaned closer to the shivering Martin and whispered into his ear.

The ordinarily plucky man went pale-like he saw a ghost. The annoyance and anger generally in his beady, dark eyes drained away to dilated pupils filled with horror and fear… towards her?

His mouth moved to mouth one word, with his lips numb and careless, only to freeze abruptly with his eyes drawn to the place behind her. She turned to see Shay smiling innocently-more like smirking- at the terrified Martin.

Arno didn’t know whether she should laugh at the poor man or pity him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to do better in this chapter. I apologize for how cringy the previous chapter was. It's just a bit difficult for me to start out right now. I have a lot of things planned. But, to be honest, I am experiencing a little anxiety when it comes to posting the chapters. I know it will get better, but I just feel a bit nervous. Also, if it isn't too much to ask, please comment. If one of the chapters is downright unbearable to read, please let me know. If you see something you like, then that would be great for me to find out. Anyway, thank you for reading!


	5. unexpected

To no one’s surprise, Francois provided no argument against her leaving with Shay Cormac. How neatly things seemed to be piecing together was suspicious almost.

But, even Arno herself couldn’t muster any argument except being on a ship against going with the merchant. Why would she? As the de la Serre’s ward, she wasn’t contributing anything to them except for giving Francois his daily headache.

Regardless of how she behaved, Arno knew that she had and most likely will always have a debt to the family that took her in when no one else would. Bad luck, her father’s “friends” had whispered with each other at the funeral. Like she couldn’t hear their words as her eyes bore into the small, black book.

“-Arno?”

“ _Oui?_ ”

“This is something you will need to weather where you are going.” The packaged bundle was held out to her arms, to which she grabbed with a questioning look in her eyes.

“Where am I going?”

“North Atlantic, for the most part. But New York is where you will stay on shore leave.” Arno sighed. The more details she heard, the more she thought this was a bad idea.

She and water never did quite have a good relationship. Elise had once joked about Arno being a cat with the ability to climb high places, hide in the oddest of places, and avoidance of water.

And now she would have to be surrounded by it.

“I know you are nervous. But you will be fine. Shay Cormac is a good man, and I have known him for,” Francois paused, taking the time to consider something, “-many years. He will teach you what you should know and what I should have taught you.” her guardian finished.

What should he have taught her? The man had already had her learn how to hunt, and to some degree swordsmanship as well. He had also helped her develop technique and flow to her parkour.

Before she could even open her mouth just to ask what he was talking about, the man had already left.

I suppose that was his goodbye then, she thought. The assurance was a blessing to some and a gift to others. Francois must have felt the same.

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she greeted. Her… mentor was standing there close to one of the main roads leading out of Paris and to Le Havre.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” Shay Cormac asked bluntly.

“ _Non._ ” It didn’t hurt to exclude that she drank more wine than usual during breakfast.

“Just don’t fall off the horse,” He said while shaking his head. She couldn’t tell if it was of amusement or exasperation. A sneaking suspicion told her both.

“Yes, yes.” Arno took his offered hand and pulled herself up, seating herself behind him. With a slight nudge, the horse began to move, and Arno felt tense.

“What do you trade and sell as a merchant?” she asked, trying to distract herself.

“Rum, wood, sugar, and the other basic resources.”

“Not much variety there.”

“I specialize in the combat aspect.”

“There is no combat involved in being a merchant. Unless you are a mercenary, that is.”

“You could say I’m both.” Wait…

What?

Despite all the respect and debt, she had to Francois and the de la Serres, Arno… she just couldn’t help but think of a few choice words in mind for her guardian.

He had sent her to be apprenticed under a mercenary.

“ _Merde._ ” She couldn’t say that she hadn’t seen that coming. Shay Cormac had weapons on his person more than the average merchant.

Still...Arno was much too sober for this.

* * *

“You do realize that I have no experience in naval ventures?” Arno asked as she stretched her back. Being on the horse for many hours had taken its toll.

“Aye, but I will have someone get you up to speed on your assigned task.”

“And just what is that?”

“You’ll see.”

“You know vague people are often those who are most suspicious.” Shay gave her a pointed look. She didn’t back down and stared at him straight back.

“I think you will have an interesting meeting with him,” He randomly remarked with an amused smile like there was something funny about her words.

Port Le Havre was a bustling place with its tobacco factory, commodity exchange, and thriving port to boast. The very air itself smelt with the lingering scent of tobacco and spices. The homely neighboring villages she had used to travel to were a far cry from Le Havre.

“You look lost,” Shay commented.

“Parisians rarely travel out of their city. The most I have traveled being small neighboring villages.”

“Your world is going to get a whole lot larger then, lass.” Ah, yes. Traveling with him would mean going to new places.

“I suppose so, mentor.” The slight, inward flinch he seemed to give to that word-mentor- did not go unnoticed by her.

Arno was nothing if not observant.

Shay suddenly stopped in his footsteps with an excited look in his eye, “We’re here.”

Arno looked around at her, suddenly noticing the salty scent of the sea, and the wooden planks laid out in front of her making up the docks. There was only one ship anchored at the docks. It boasted of a bold, crimson cross on its flag and weapons that surely fitted that of a mercenary.

_“You could say I’m both.”_

Understatement of the year.

“Shay! You’ve returned and with the company.” a voice cried out. Arno turned to stare at an approaching man, fitted with dark brown robes and a hat that sloped to cover his eyes. The newcomer had shaggy dark brown hair and mirthful, warm brown eyes that appeared to be welcoming. The numerous pouches that were attached to the belt on the man's waist as well as the long rifle slung across his back nagged at the back of Arno's mind just like Shay's appearance had done.

“Nathan,” Shay greeted with a tight smile-was that forced?- and motioned to her, “I’d like you to meet my new apprentice, Arno Dorian.”

“Dorian, hm? Shay, you really decided to go through-”

“Aye, I did.” Something about his voice was just tense and filled with a warning as a dark look flashed through his eyes and Nathan quieted immediately.

“Did you even tell her about your _other_ apprentice?”

“No,” Arno walked forward with a guarded look on her face, “He didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Anybody still reading this? If so, could you let me know?


	6. a pleasant introduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which George Benedict learns one thing: Do not take Arno Dorian's watch.
> 
> OR
> 
> In which Arno makes a new friend.

“Shay, when are we going to leave this-oh you didn’t tell us you had company.” A young man with short brown hair with a navy blue frock coat and white vest interrupted. His dry tone at the end implied many things, not all pleasant.

“I’m his new apprentice, Monsieur.” Arno moved forward with back straight and eyes calm. The newcomer only smirked and extended a hand.

She grasped it without a second thought with a firm pressure only for the man to tighten his grip. Arno didn’t let the discomfort show and just slid her finger to the base of his index finger’s bone and pressed down.

Hard.

The slight wince the man failed to hide brought more satisfaction than it probably should have brought. The man had thought he could intimidate her with a simple handshake. Oh, how wrong he was. Arno’s faced angry shopkeepers, soldiers, drunks, two particularly manipulative rats, and Francois. This man had nothing on them.

“It’s good to see you guys getting along splendidly,” The upbeat, cheeriness in Nathan’s voice seemed forced, with the strain behind it only proving her suspicions to be all the more truer.

“Would you mind taking her to the ship, Nathan?” Shay asked-no more like ordered. The almost visible strain in his voice seemed to have Nathan almost wince. Arno turned to her mentor with questions ready to spill out of her lips, but they both knew it wasn’t the right time.

Later, she decided. She would get her answers soon, but on another date.

In the mean-time, Arno had another matter to deal with, precisely that of the man next to her who just happened to be Shay Cormac’s other apprentice.

Why the hell would he want another apprentice, much less a female one?

“You have a hard grip; you know that?” The wooden planks of the docks creaked and groaned in protest as he turned towards her with an accusing look, “I’m not sure if I even want to know where you learned that from.”

“You don’t,” She paused, a question lingering in her mind, “What is your name, if I may ask?” Arno might as well be polite, as her fellow apprentice seemed to extend the same courtesy, even if it was superficial.

Give what you are given, after all.

“George Benedict. And yours?” He inquired politely and forced an obviously faux smile onto his features. His blue eyes, shadowed by dark, abundant brown hair, narrowing as his smile widened.

“Arno. Arno Victor Dorian.”

“Odd for a woman such as yourself to have such a name...”

“There’s a long story behind it all,” Arno let the offhand jab at her name go. People have tried that all too many times for that to even be a sufficient insult.

“Family, hm?” You are asking quite a few questions for a man who just tried to intimidate me moments ago; she wanted to say.

“My mother.” she relented with that bit of information. There was more to the story than that, but George Benedict didn’t have to know that.

“Mothers… they can be overbearing at times,” The genuine tone of his voice implied his experience with his mother to be not quite pleasant..

“I wouldn’t know.” As she spoke, Arno failed to notice the absence of the familiar weight on her person.

* * *

 “Where is it?” Arno stalked into the room with a wild look in her eyes. George only continued to whistle absently as the angry woman stormed closer to him.

“I am afraid-” That he didn’t know where it was, hm? Arno has heard that one before.

“I don’t think you heard me clearly, Monsieur Benedict. Where is my watch?” She’s fought petty thieves, drunks, and soldiers for that watch of her fathers, and no one, not the man in front of her, would take it from her.

“What makes you think that I have it. The crew is known to be a tad greedy at times. Sailors-” Know better than him apparently, she silently finished.

“I’m not an idiot, George. You were the only one I came in contact with today,”

“No contact with the crew? You know, you might become a hermit at this rate...” The brown haired and the blue-eyed man continued to tease her. Arno refused to bristle at the remark. Her social life in Paris was fine with the gambling and occasionally being forced by Francois to go to those stuck up social clubs to watch debates...

“I take pleasure in choosing my own company.” Her body suddenly tensed in preparation, and she darted forward to grab the watch from his grasp only for it to be yanked higher.

“Ah, ah.” he tutted condescending. A lick of white-hot rage shot up her spine as a scowl marred her features.

“What do you want?”

“Nothing,” George Benedict stated while smirking smugly. Arno could just feel her hands itching to grab the watch just out of her reach and the man’s smug little face-

“That’s it, you  _imbécile_!”

Arno grabbed the extended hand in front of her with both hands on each side and twisted sharply. The limb pushed forward as dear old George became caught in a very vulnerable position. The undeniably wicked smile painting her face soon became a grimace of pain when he kicked at her shin.

“So tell me, who did that watch belong to? A brother, friend, or, perhaps, even lover?”

The split second of distraction caused by the pain was all he needed to get free… and for her to get angry. Her hands recklessly grabbed the rough, dirty fabric of his robes and pulling him close. Their foreheads connected when Arno drew her head back and snapped it forwards, connecting with George’s head. A sickening crack was heard, hopefully not from her head though.

She could have sworn she saw stars as Arno staggered back across the deck, “You have a hard head.” she commented absently, blinking away the fuzz clouding her vision.

Something gripped her leg, and Arno went tumbling down with the filthy, hard wooden boards greeting her with a curse on her lips. A hand pressed her head not so gently against the wood as she tried to see past the odd vision-Were those baguettes she saw?- she found herself with.

“What the _hell_ are you two doing?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, there is a lag on the date this story is updated, so it may show that I have updated a week ago when I have updated just more recently. Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for reading and please comment, if it isn't too much to ask! 
> 
> Up next:
> 
> Arno meets the Morrigan's doctor, and gets a crash course in medicine on the high seas.


	7. meeting the good doctor

"Oh, shut it, would you, doc?" George turned his head to the voice. Arno too mimicked his motion and almost did an uptake of what she saw.

A woman dressed in pure white robes and a blood-stained, blue smock whose lips were pressed firmly together in a sign of clear disapproval. Her dainty face, framed by her light brown hair, was marred by a scowl and flecks of... blood.

"What did I tell you about hazing the recruits?" The newcomer's voice became frosty and eyes like ice. Her opponent suddenly looked down and found his shoes to be of new interest to him. Arno stared incredulously at the man in front of her. The woman was not even using blatant aggression and didn't tower over George height-wise, so why was he acting so... submissive?

"To not do so."

"Exactly," The woman motioned to Arno herself, "Apologize, brat, and I will not make a note of this the next time you come to my quarters." Arno almost choked on her spit at the last part. Did she just say quarters as in...

Oh.

_Oh._

Well, that mental image wasn't going away anytime soon. Arno began to feel like one of those naughty noblemen that would cackle together while looking at.. unseemly literature.

 _I'm not like them_ , she chided herself. George and the woman were the ones who stated their business so rashly.

"Are you causing trouble for the lass, George?"

"Ah, no, sir," He quickly responded, changing his tune fairly quickly like that of a dime flipping, "Just making sure Miss Dorian is up to par on her combat skills."

"Nathan and I will be helping her with that," Something in Shay's light tone suggested that he was amused by his apprentices' fight with each other, "I would suggest that you help her get familiar with her surroundings, George." The apprentice only nodded at Shay's "suggestion" while his eyes flickered to her.

With an acknowledging nod to Arno, Shay then walked forward to the woman with a letter sealed in a red, wax seal in hand. He leaned closer to her and exchanged few indistinguishable words as if they were quite mindful of their surroundings. The woman's eyes only hardened and hands balled together, something obviously angry in her disposition. Contrary to that, Shay seemed to be at ease, unlike the last time she saw him.

"I see," The woman nodded, "It will be done by noon, tomorrow." Shay nodded and patted her shoulder lightly. A silent apology, it seemed to be from Arno's perspective.

"I'm sure George will help you get your sea legs, lass." She could have sworn he winked at her with his signature amused smile on his face.

"We'll see about that, Monsieur Cormac."

As it would turn out, her fellow Apprentice would only shuffle her down to the lower deck of the ship, and have her cornered in a cramped space with something Arno could have sworn were blood stains.

"Is this the moment you tell me that you are all mass murderers?" Arno asked sardonically.

"No, it's worse."

As if on cue, the same woman from earlier walked into the room, with lips pressed firmly together and her apron covered in blood.

"Dorian, meet the good doctor of the Morrigan, Marie Barnes."

Doctor.

"I...see." she finished quietly, something inside of her just wilting at the realization.

Struggling to place a polite smile on her face despite the blood and gore coating the doctor's smock, Arno greeted the woman with the same reserved sweetness trained into her by scornful governesses, "Arno Dorian, a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Madame Barnes."

"Same." Marie Barnes replied curtly as she inspected the bone saw, Arno just realized she had on her hand.

Well, she just realized why she disliked doctors, now.

_Splendid._

"Well," Marie drawled, "The medicine chests need to be rearranged again, thanks to some brat's negligence." Was it just her or did George actually gulp behind her?

"I bid you a good day, then." Arno mustered out with as much politeness as she could put in.

"Well, aren't you a sweet little thing?" Don't think of the dentist, Arno. Don't think, "I'll make sure to treat you carefully when you come by. Can't let another of Cormac's be wasted." The woman winked-was that a playful one or the wink that told of murdering small animals for research purposes-

Arno winced at the sudden nudge to her ribs, "I think it's time I show Miss Dorian her quarters and duties aboard this lovely ship."

"You go do that," A dark look flashed through the doctor's eyes, "And relabel the vials in the medicine chest."

"Never should have told her that I could use wax-" George mumbled before cutting himself off at the doctor's look, "Yes, ma'am."

Well, that nasty little thought Arno had earlier was dismissed.

Unless...

Nope, she wasn't going to think about it.

Out of sight, out of mind.

"Want to see your quarters now?" he said while giving her an understanding and knowing look. Either he was deathly scared of doctors or just plain terrified of Marie...either one Arno could understand.

"Yes," Arno nodded in agreement, "That would be nice."

* * *

As it would turn out, it wasn't nice... at all. For what reason? Well, to put it simply, because of whom she was sharing "her" quarters with.

"You've got to be kidding me."

"Afraid not," he replied with a light tone in his voice, suggesting that he was amused by this, "There was a vote among the holders of high positions of the Morrigan about your quarters. And it came to this." He gestured to the cot on the other side of the room. There were also a variety of fur skins lying next to it.

"Why, pray tell?"

"Well," George seemed to grimace at what he was about to say next, "Ah, this is hard to explain. But it's your gender. Crew members and you would be..."

"Inappropriate." Arno finished, "And I agree. Although, I do not see how this is better."

George shrugged, "A lesser of two evils, I suppose."

"Indeed," she paused, "Pardon my French, but why the hell did you act like an _imbécile_ back there?"

"It was a test. I needed to know how well you could cover for yourself."

"And how did I do?"

"Well enough." he admitted while grinning, "All good, now?" he extended a hand towards her.

"Yes," Arno smiled and reached for his hand. As soon as she touched his hand, she tugged on it with a deceptive amount of force and pulled him close.

"Steal my father's watch again, and _je vais déchirer vos bras off_." She whispered into his ear with a shark-like smile on her face.

"Oh, I think you will fit in here all right." He then mumbled something about 'the same smile' while glancing at her.

"Let's get along just swimmingly, shall we?"

"Yes, we shall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if anyone is reading this or any of the recent chapters, but I just wanted to let you know that the action and first main story arc that involves the American Assassins... and Connor Kenway will begin in just a few chapters. I know these chapters are probably tedious to read, but there is a reason why I am doing this (besides leaving a few hints about the distant, future chapters). Although, I could probably handle this better. Also, I will be posting a short, little work on December 18... which is also my birthday. Well, I'll try to update frequently until I at least hit the first main story arc. Thanks for reading and please comment, if possible!


	8. Paperwork and choices

"Ah, I almost forgot." George snapped his fingers in remembrance, "I still have to tell you of your duties." He looked almost gleeful for some reason.

"You have the duty of assigning missions and managing the Cormac fleet?"

"The what fleet?" Arno asked blankly, still not understanding.

"Shay's fleet. He is a... merchant of sorts-"

"I thought he was a mercenary." George almost laughed at her, not in a mocking way. But that of a child looking at an adult while snickering about some prank they were oblivious too.

"He's both, and more, if you think about it."

"So, how do I go about this?" Finances were better than naval work, she told herself. But something inside of her sunk at the thought of the paperwork involved.

"Well, read up on these, to start. And look at the statistics of the Fleet's ships."

"You look happy about this."

"Oh, I am. Work is now split between the two of us." Arno glanced over at the all too stack of papers on the wooden desk.

"Evenly?"

He chuckled before patting her shoulder, "I'll be going now. I would suggest reading on Lisbon and New Orleans, first. They're often the main focus of the Fleet."

Arno stared blankly at the massive stack of papers along with the tall stack of 'Suggested reading.' Well, how the devil was she supposed to read all of this and complete the paperwork.

"Oh, and try to get this done before we arrive in America, yes?" He called out over his shoulder before exiting the room.

And to think Arno had tried to skip out on her English lessons as a child.

_Thank you, Governess Martin._

* * *

 

The red star marking Lisbon as important glared brightly on the beaten, old paper of the book. A list of statistics and summary of them showed the economy and political climate as well as the safety of the routes. Strangely, none of the other ports of interest were marked with that.

Arno brushed her fingers against the red ink staining the paper, wondering what kind of ink it was. A brief, yet morbid thought crossed her mind.

Blood, she thought before dismissing the thought.

There was no way... right?

She closed the thick book, and thus hiding the red star plaguing her thoughts. A yawn escaped her lips and Arno looked out the window only to blanch at the darkness outside.

She stood from the chair and arranged the books and papers into their respective stacks on the desk. Her hands instinctively moved to take off her coat, but Arno paused.

These weren't "her" quarters. It wouldn't be proper for her to be in night clothes. She mulled on the issue for several seconds before deciding that sleeping in the used shirt was fine.

 _I've had worse in taverns_ , she reminded herself.

She shed her blue coat and set it on the drawer next to her cot. Her fingers deftly unbuttoned the golden buttons of her black waistcoat and left her only in trousers and a plain white shirt. A glance at the bundle of fur skins next to the cot had Arno grabbing them a laying one out the cot and pulled the other on top of her as she laid down.

It was almost soothing, Arno thought, The consistent creaking and groaning of the ship as she swayed on the waves.

Arno's eyes began to heavier and heavier as she listened to the sound. The last thing she registered before succumbing to blissful darkness was the creak of a door opening and heavy boots stepping on wooden planks.

* * *

 

_Knock_

Arno pulled the blankets over her head even further as she groaned at the sound. The furs surrounding her were warm and soft-

_Knock_

A spark of annoyance ignited in her chest, " _Assez, aller!_ " Arno snapped only for there to be another sound. This time what seemed to be a kick against the door.

Arno sighed, trying to collect herself. She reluctantly pushed the furs off of her and reached for her vest and coat. The soft fabric fitted onto her swiftly and deft hands buttoned up the vest. The coat was slipped on quickly, and Arno reached to tie back her hair only to realize that she never undid it.

Arno glared at the door once more before turning the handle and glaring blearily at the morning light. Her skin prickled at the cold air, and Arno's eyes widened at the sight before her.

Dark, blue waves rolled across the expanse of water in the morning light. The distinctly salty smell of the ocean tickled her nose and was breathed into her lungs.

"About time you woke up," George remarked as he looked over the array of weapons laid out on the crate in front of him.

"We already departed..."

"Yes, an overnight departure to get us ahead of schedule," Shay answered.

"What? Were you hoping to bid goodbye to your homeland?" George teased. Arno leveled a menacing glare at him. Was he the one who kicked the door...

"Not a morning person, I see. You should... ah, do something about your hair." Arno felt for her hair only to pause and glower at him once more.

"One of these days, my friend. You will get punched."

"Didn't know you felt that way about me."

"Never said it was going to be from me." A particularly loud cough interrupted their banter. They both looked towards their mentor with questioning looks in their eyes.

"I believe it's time I introduce the purpose of this... meeting."

"Which is?"

"Specialities. You will both choose one that will be complementary to each other."

"We're going to working together." Arno breathed out in realization. Her eyes slid to the back of George with a thoughtful look in them. What would they even work together on? She already knew that it was a likely possibility that Shay was a mercenary or whatever the hell his occupation was. But he couldn't expect the two of them to work together in live combat... or even alone in a battle, right?

Shay nodded, "Take your time in choosing. I'd rather have you develop specialties and cover each other's weaknesses before getting your skillset... well-rounded." Made sense, in one way. But potentially throwing two people, who were complete strangers to one another, in live combat was either the worst or best decision to build teamwork.

 _Either way... I'm stuck with him_ , she thought.

Her feet carried her closer to the crate, and Arno felt her eyes focus on the rifle taking up the length of the container. She had never used a rifle before and seldom seen it fired, save for the rare times of a friend of Francois shooting it in the estate while hunting. But the idea of using it was interesting. Arno was mediocre at best in swordsmanship, then again... marksmanship was something she didn't excel in either unless throwing darts counted for anything.

"The only thing you're good for is trying to find answers at the bottom of a bottle."

"Doubt that considered a talent." she murmured to herself.

Shay made a questioning noise to which she merely shook her head, "It's nothing."

Her hands went to grab the rifle by the beginning of it with one hand and the barrel by the other.

"Good choice," Shay commented with an approving look in his eyes. For a split second, Arno thought it was explicitly directed at her- _probably because of that hope in her chest_ \- only to realize that he was talking to George. Her fellow apprentice had decided to take up close-range arms, judging by the sword and dagger in his hands.

Well, that's not disappointing in the slightest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like this chapter. I think I may have improved a bit on writing the banter between Arno and George, which is nice. Also, there's some insecurities and jealousy on Arno's part that are revealed at the end of this chapter. But, I'm not going to overplay it, especially on jealousy. Well, anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As of now, it's my birthday (Dec. 18)! To be honest, (and I do not think this is my happiness about my birthday) I feel more optimistic about this story after getting through the last chapter and writing this one. Most of the things are established well enough for the action to take place soon, and I can finally write the things I've been wanting to write since the very beginning of planning this story! Anyway, thanks for reading and feel more than free to leave a comment!


	9. pity in his eyes

 

 

> **_June 1, 1786_ **

“I swear if you sing that damn sea shanty one more time, I will-” A hand clapped onto her shoulder. She shrugged it off with a half-hearted glare at the man responsible, the haze of grogginess in the morning still weighing down on her.

“Would you like to get some more of that beauty sleep of yours, princess?” One of the crew members-Oliver, if she remembered his name right- joked. Arno huffed dramatically, the smile widening her lips betrayed her true emotions.  
  
“Well, I’ll have you know that I was actually the least spoiled in my guardian’s household.”

“Whatever you say, lass.” Shay amusedly commented, from his position at the wheel.

“Indeed, cabbage farmer.” She nonchalantly replied, while rubbing her eyes. The crisp morning air along with the salty smell of the sea began to awaken her senses. And only then did she notice true annoyance-for once-flashed through her mentor’s eyes. And all for that simple name…

Cabbage farmer.

“I wouldn’t recommend you calling the captain that, frog!” Oliver hollered with his signature toothy grin and smug eyes.

“Call me that one more time and I will say something quite regretful.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.” Her mentor commented. Arno whipped around to face the smirking man as she narrowed her eyes, “Don’t you have something to do, captain?”

“Aye, I do.” The nonchalant answer was a playful mockery of Arno’s tone while calling him a ‘cabbage farmer,' “Speaking of things to do, I need you to deliver this to a business associate of mine.” Shay reached into his coat and brought out a parcel wrapped in cloth and secured in thin leather strips.

“I assume this will happen when we reach New York.” An obvious answer to an obvious question was expected. It wasn’t like Shay excepted her to swim the rest of the way to New York… right?

“Yes,” he paused, “We will arrive soon if the winds and currents hold true.” Ah, there was the naval talk-currents, winds, and everything that Arno simply had not the time nor teaching to understand.

“Good.”

“Excited, are you?” Shay’s tone almost had a playful lilt to it, like he was teasing her. Arno nearly sighed. Sometimes, it felt like both the crew and the captain of the Morrigan just loved to tease the foreigner-her-whenever the opportunity presented itself.

“Not quite.” More on the part of being nervous than excited. Arno’s confidence in her English was strong. The De La Serres had not neglected her lingual skills, to their credit. But what she had heard of American customs and traditions… made Arno unsure. She hooked a finger around the fabric of her cravat and tugged on it, loosening the suddenly stifling pressure it brought.

“We’ll be taking off to the North Atlantic soon,” Shay added, most likely noticing her discomfort. The minuscule comfort he gave her only further solidified her confusion about the man’s character.

One moment, Arno would swear she saw the sheer ruthlessness lurking beneath the surface and the next he would be grinning at some rather inappropriate joke made by the crew-mostly Oliver- at times.

_“Merci.”_

Arno didn’t know what to think about Shay Cormac yet. She always tried to only judge someone, after getting to know their character first. In the case of her mentor, she had all the time she needed for that.

An awkward yet peaceful silence overcame the air. The sailors continued hollering at one another as they sang hearty songs of women and everything under the sun that their sea-worn selves could think of and the waves rocked the ship-sloop o’ war, Shay had told her- rhythmically almost. Arno couldn’t help but relax inwardly for the once foreign noises had long since become familiar to her ears. No longer did French grace her ears, but brisk English in various accents entered them.

As she stood by her mentor with both eyes and mind still weary with sleep, Arno heard cloth shifting and a clacking noise. She opened her eyes with a slight, almost lazy interest apparent in them.

“You’ll be needing this.” Arno’s fingers lightly grasped the objects thrust into her hands. One moment, her mentor had been steering the ship, the next he practically shoved-and unceremoniously at that- two weapons into Arno’s arms.

A flintlock and a dagger.

The gun had apparently seen better days with it's wooden, chipped surface and worn look. A particular kind of bitter, metallic smell clung to the weapon as if the battlefield it had been used in clung to it hauntingly.

The dagger only complimented the sensation brought by its longer ranged counterpart. Arno ran a finger lightly along the flat part of the blade. She almost recoiled at the warm feeling. The sensation was akin to that of touching a heated liquid. And only on a battlefield did one such liquid reign dominant-

Arno shook off the thought like one banishes an ill feeling. Where had that come from?

She glanced up at Shay with a questioning look, “I didn’t know a merchant’s apprentice needed to be this heavily armed.” The thought had briefly entered her mind a while back when she first laid eyes on the rifle laid out on the crate.

“Oh, this? This is nothing.” There it was again. That look, accompanied by a shark-like grin. It was the look of determination and something else. 

“I’d be interested to see what counts as being ‘overly armed’ in your terms, Monsieur Cormac.”

“You wouldn’t want to know.” This time Arno could distinguish one of the many emotions gracing Shay’s dark eyes.

Pity.

Her mentor didn’t even try to hide the almost condescending emotion in his eyes. Arno knew she should feel angry, bitter, and belittled almost. But… it was honest, and Arno knew there were different kinds of pity.

There was the pity of one looking down at a child and shaking their head at the sheer injustice and sins the child would experience later in their life. But a more fitting example would be that of a seasoned soldier- a veteran- looking down at a newcomer with pitying eyes. They had no idea; the veteran would sadly think.

And as Arno stood next to her mentor, the merchant with his conflicted eyes and more so of his nature, she felt like that of the newcomer with the veteran-her mentor- staring down at her with undisguised pity of what was to come.

_“You overthink things, Arno. That will land you in trouble one day.”_

"When will you teach me on long-range weapons?"

"When you get one of your own." Shay gestured to the pouch filled with coin secured at her waist. Arno couldn't bring herself to be surprised by the news. But she would still need to find a reliable weapons shop that didn't scam oblivious foreigners. 

And there was also that stack of papers lying on the desk that needed to be looked over and signed. The only thing that Arno was proud to say she accomplished was finishing the 'suggested reading' assigned to her.

 _Maybe, I can bribe George with taking over some of his duties that Marie assigned him_ , Arno thought with hope rising in her chest. Her fellow apprentice loathed serving in the doctor's quarters. The smell of blood and deafening screams that haunted the room were off-putting to many. As long as Arno herself wasn't on the table with Marie brandishing a bone saw over her, then she could handle being in there.

But there still was the issue of navigating New York to deliver the letter as well as find a reliable weapons shop.

"Almost forgot, lass. George will be accompanying you in New York."

Well, that solved her problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case any of you were wondering, Nathan is training George, so they didn't appear in the chapter. Also, I'll try to post the next chapter tomorrow. At this rate, we'll be getting to the American Assassins story arc in a pretty short amount of time, which is great! Anyway, thanks for reading!


	10. a whole new world

 

Francois had a sick sense of humor.

The same could be said about his taste in gifts, she thought.

That was her only thought as she held the bundle that he had gifted to her. It must have been one of her father's spare robes. There were no blood stains on the fabric nor the stench of death and decay tainting the smell of clean cloth.

Arno unfolded the bundle carefully with caution in her every movement. Apprehension tugged at her being with the truth weighing down on her. Her outfit was too thin and not as warmly clothed as this one was. But still...

This was her father's.

* * *

 

"One word about my hair and I-"

"And you'll do what?"

"Tell Madame Barnes about how you skipped out on your duties, and I had to cover for you." George blanched, "Say, do you remember mislabeling those medicine vials?" Arno asked slyly.

"You wouldn't." George narrowed his eyes, apparently trying to decide if she was bluffing or not.

"Oh, I would." _Try me. I dare you_ , she thought.

"Can we just go, princess?"

"Olivier is a bad influence on you," He shot a look at her, "Ah, yes. Just give me a second..." Arno pocketed her father's watch securely on her coat. The crimson fabric shuffled lightly as she secured the pocket watch.

"You're wearing different robes," George noted with an inquisitive look in his eyes.

"I am," she answered. Her voice was brisk and curt as she felt foreign in the clothes she was wearing. But still, the lack of cold permeating throughout her and biting at her skin was welcomed nonetheless. Francois must have had a seamstress adjust the clothes to her size. The robes were loose on her frame, but not enough to just hang off.

"Always so stiff," George lamented with a teasing lilt in his voice. Apparently, every day with the Morrigan and her crew was 'Teasing Arno Day.' Fortunately, Arno was a quick study, especially in the ways of vengeance...

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, _Georgie_." Arno smirked at his infuriated reply consisting of 'Don't call me that!'. Oh, how she loved good, old revenge.

"Marie must have told you that blasted name," She shook her head.

"No, that was all me."

"I am surrounded by cruel women in my life." The tone of his voice was odd, foreboding almost. It was akin to that of a man walking to the gallows. One, single thought nagged at Arno.

Why did she feel that he wasn't just talking about Marie and herself?

* * *

 

New York wasn't particularly breathtaking. It was different, though. No longer did elaborate French curses greet her ears, but rough accented English in vulgar phrases as a nearby group of rowdy sailors passed by. But still, an excitement of sorts did arise in her chest as she stepped on American soil, for the first time.

"Are you always this slow, Georgie?" Arno called out to the man behind her. His steps were slow and deliberate along with his haunted eyes.

"Stop calling me that!" A flicker of annoyance seemed to breathe life into them. George's steps hastened, and soon he was walking beside her in long strides.

"You're walking like that of a man to his execution."

"It's... nothing." Arno shrugged. It wasn't any of her business... but that didn't stop the rebellious spark of curiosity welling in her chest. This was something she could dig out of him... later on.

"Very well," she replied nonchalantly. Her eyes scanned the buildings of her surroundings. They seemed different from that of Paris. Perhaps, more homely in a sense, "What about the tasks Master Cormac assigned us?"

"No more 'Monsieur'?" Arno nearly winced at his butchering of her language, but at the same time stifled a laugh bubbling in her throat. 'Monsieur' was never to be pronounced like that. She's heard drunk men say the word better than George ever could. But, it was funny though, and _almost_ cute in the way a child would clumsily pronounce the word.

"Well, we are his apprentices, are we not?" Arno said bluntly.

"Indeed. Still, you might find an amused look from him if you ever say that."

"I get that plenty, already." _Like from you_ , she added silently. All those amused looks from everyone around her began to pile onto the annoyance she felt at being kept 'out of the loop.' Arno started to feel like that one child that didn't know some little secret the other children were snickering about to themselves.

Like she said, annoying, to say the least.

"No surprise there. You are quite cute, after all." Arno felt heat rush to her face. Again, with the teasing.

"You just had to say that," The Frenchwoman nearly grumbled.

"See what I mean," George's grin widened, "Cute."

_'Father, give me the strength to survive this.'_

"The tasks." Arno persisted in reminding him, something inside of her almost begging to change the topic of the conversation.

"Ah, yes." His eyes flickered to what was likely a marketplace just ahead, "We'll be looking for some reliable places to get supplies for us. Weaponry and clothing," He trailed off.

"I see."

"Alone." George added, "My family already has a provider for things such as this, but you will need to find your own." She briefly thought of who exactly the Benedicts were, in terms of status. But the passing thought was forsaken in place of Arno's own self interest.

"I see," Arno restrained herself from scowling. She was already not looking forward to having to speak English for what would likely be several years. It had been somewhat decent on the ship with some of The Morrigan's crew being French and conversing with them. Now, Arno had to worry about her accent being too thick for those to understand as she was alone.

"Good luck, Viccy." _Never should have told him my middle name_ , Arno thought to herself.

"I make my own luck, Georgie." She replied.

"Don't let him hear you saying that. Shay's rather possessive of that catchphrase of his."

"Oh, really? I couldn't tell from the obsessive way he keeps on saying that and cares for his ship." Arno said with sarcasm practically dripping from her voice. Shay Cormac really did have an obsession with Lady Luck and the Morrigan.

_"She's not an 'it,' Arno! The Morrigan's a she." 'Why' was her only thought in reply to Shay's correction._

Arno nearly twitched at the memory and the _countless_ corrections Shay made regarding addressing his ship's gender pronouns, before stalking off into the buzzing crowd of people in the marketplace. Hurried voices and clustered bodies brushing past each other to get to their destinations soon obscured her view of him. But, she could have sworn she heard laughing in the distance.

' _What to do, what to do._ ' Arno thought as she tsked to herself. A new world awaited her regarding foreign customs that lay risk of her offending someone and confusing linguistics.

It looks like she would get a first-hand experience in bartering in America. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter gets a comment by 10 AM tomorrow, then I can promise you that I will update tomorrow. But I can't update on the days after that because I will be gone on a three day event that lasts from 8 AM - 10 PM for each day... Wish me luck, please? Also, the next two chapters will give some hints on what kind of event I am going to. Hint: It's purely intellectual and involves something that some people fear worse than death. 
> 
> Anyway, I tried to add some humor to this chapter (Kind of...). One of my favorite things about writing this chapter was actually writing the banter between George and Arno. It's just fun to write honestly. Well, just a few more chapters that will consist of the New York arc for this story before going into the American Assassins arc. And then a little while after that... well things go downhill.


	11. a contract and an annoyed shopkeeper

 

 

> _**Lukens' Arms & Munitions** _

"Charming," Arno commented. The quaint, little sign had two rifles crossed together, and the flowing script of the words was out of place in the bustling city of New York. Although, the boarded-up windows showed a different message. She briefly took a moment to straighten her robes and composure before pushing the wooden door of the shop open.

The sight of candles lit the dim interior of the shop and the smell of flora, roses perhaps, greeted Arno as she entered the store. Various rifles and weaponry of all sizes decorated the walls and shelves of the shop. It was an orderly mess if such a thing was possible.

Nothing like the gunnery stores that Arno would go to as a tag along with the other servants at the De la Serre estate.

"Are you here for something?" Arno's head swerved to look at the direction of the voice. A young man with blue eyes and long, brown hair tied loosely at the back stood behind the counter with his hands folded in front of his brown apron.

"I'm here for..." Arno trailed off. What was the word, again?

"Yes?" The apparent shopkeeper's voice was impatient, and she nervously wracked her mind for the word.

Should have listened to the governess more, a voice chided her.

Arno gritted her teeth. It wasn't her fault that she didn't know the word for 'rifle'-

Oh.

"I'm an idiot," Arno murmured to herself.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Nothing," Getting her thoughts together, Arno faced the impatient and rather annoyed shopkeeper, "I'm looking for a rifle and a pair of pistols, preferably not flintlocks," she added. Flintlocks were not a conventional weapon.

"Anything else?"

Arno paused at the question. Was there anything else she needed to get?

"Do you have anything green?"

"There is a cloak," Lukens said, looking at her analytically, "Should be about your size too," he added.

"Merci." The chuckle the man gave in return did not make her blush. Not in the slightest, Arno thought with embarrassment at her foolishness still fresh in her mind.

The man went behind the curtain to the very back of the shop, and Arno took the time to look around at the various weapons decorating the interior of the store.

Axes that seemed to be combined with mortars, as well as a hollow tube with feathered darts, laid next to it in the right corner.

The left corner, however, had a very different kind of selection. There was a particularly long, rifle that held Arno's attention.

 

 

> _**Long Rifle** _

"Not a very imaginative name," Arno commented with half-hearted interest before moving onto the next case. It was more decorative and carefully put together with apparent, delicate care. The barrel of the rifle was long, yes. But shorter than its neighbor concerning length. But something about the weapon pulled at the back of her mind.

Arno's eyes trailed down to the label at the bottom of the case's front...

 

 

> _**Girandoni Air Rifle** _

The sound of a door opening and footsteps had Arno turning to the counter, "Ah, Monsieur, I-" Whatever she was going to say was stopped by the sight of someone who wasn't the shopkeeper.

A soldier.

Wariness filled her being as Arno refocused her eyes on the 'Girandoni Air Rifle.' Can't fight with a soldier in America, she reminded herself. After all, she had already gotten into more than enough trouble with soldiers back in France.

"Where is that little, Quaker mongrel?"

"Are you talking about me, good sir?" The man himself spoke.

"You," the soldier growled, "haven't paid the protection fee, yet."

"Those gangs, you mean?" The shopkeeper narrowed his eyes, a spark of defiance igniting in the blue orbs, "I will not be associated with criminals."

"A good Quaker, are you?" He told the man mockingly, "Then, why are you dealing with guns?"

The shopkeeper did not respond, and Arno felt a heated annoyance towards the soldier. 'Don't do it, Arno,' she told herself. Don't-

Ah, when did she ever listen to herself in the first place?

"Monsieur, I am sure we can all resolve this peacefully." Arno took a step forward as utterly non-threatening as possible-with a hand ready to grip the knife secured at her back...

A huff could be heard from him as he narrowed his eyes at her with his nostrils flared, "Are you involved in this too?" He accused.

Sickeningly, sweet temptation rose to her lips, and Arno couldn't help but not bite back the words that spilled out of your mouth. "I hope you do realize that you look like a pig, Monsieur. Those beady little eyes and nos-"

She barely ducked in time to dodge a meaty fist to the face. Arno nearly winced at the crash signifying something expensive got damaged instead of herself.

If the man wasn't going to kill her first, then the shopkeeper sure as hell was.

* * *

 

And that was how Arno ended up sweeping the glass remains of a particularly beloved case of Lukens.

"Monsieur Lukens," she addressed hesitantly, "Would you mind excusing me-"

"I would." He answered bluntly with that peeved look from before. She nearly twitched in irritation at his apparent grudge against her. She had already paid for the case. What more did he want?

"Could you at least tell me what time it is?" Oh kind sir, she held back.

"Nine o'clock," he replied nonchalantly with his nose deep in a book.

"Nine..." She murmured to herself before swearing-in her head of course. She was going to miss supper!

"I will resume this task bright and early tomorrow, Monsieur Lukens!" Arno hastily set the broomstick against the wall before turning to the shopkeeper, "Be in good health until then."

"Sign."

"What?"

"Sign a contract, and I will release you."

Arno felt confusion. Was she being held as a prisoner?

If so, Americans, or rather these 'Quakers' she has heard about, had an odd way of doing so.

"What is the contract?" Arno asked carefully. Always know what you are signing, Francois had taught her that.

"Lukens' Arms & Munition will be your primary supplier of arms, munition, and any other supplies that I can fit you for."

"...do I get a discount?" She asked, knowingly trying to push her luck, however far.

With a dry yet amused look, Lukens pushed a scroll of parchment across the wooden, counter, "Find the blueprints and anything else worth of value to my inventions and myself..."

"And?"

"You get a discount, exclusive access to weapons, and free-"

Arno perked up at the mention of 'free' things.

"-munition." Lukens finished, "Of course, you have to find the items listed here, first."

Arno grabbed the scroll off the counter before unraveling it and raising an eyebrow at its contents, "The hide of a polar bear..." It was now her turn to give a dry look at him, "Does it look like I have the firepower to take down a _polar bear_ of all things?"

"I will provide the necessities."

"I want the Girandoni."

"Excuse me?" Arno could have sworn Lukens twitched at her statement. ' _You are asking me to take down a polar bear. What else did you think I was going to do this for?_ ' Arno thought.

"That air rifle... I want it. Give it to me, and I will do this task of yours."

"Complete _this_ task, and I will consider on giving it to you in a trial run of sorts." He pushed over another parchment before leaning closer, "But have even one scratch on the Girandoni, and I will personally make sure you live to regret it."

"That isn't threatening at all for a business transaction."

"Well, you would be deprived of wielding the Girandoni in combat, a massive disadvantage if I dare say so myself-"

" _Merci_. I take my leave now, Monsieur."

There's two of them, Arno thought before shivering. Why did Americans cherish such material things? First, Shay and his ship... now the Girandoni and its overprotective owner, Jonathan Lukens.

At least, George didn't have any apparent quirks... right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! It's been a little while since I've updated this story. I'll try to be more consistent from now on. Anyway, I am always open to constructive criticism. So feel free to give feedback or comments! I always welcome those. 
> 
> The next chapter involves Georgie and his sister (Spoiler: It's not going to be a happy reunion, and Arno is going to be caught in the middle of it)
> 
> Chapter 12 Summary: In which Arno isn't the only one with 'sister issues'...
> 
> Just several more chapters to go until the American Assassins Arc... I know that I have been mentioning it a lot. But there is a lot more action in the next story arc, and the current story arc is just introducing characters and trying to set the stage for future chapters. Anyway, one of the reasons I am excited for the American Assassins Arc is that there is going to be legacies of previous Assassins showing in the chapters, and also Connor Kenway is going to appear. I just need to push through in finishing this story arc first.
> 
> Also, Jonathan Lukens, the shopkeeper in this chapter is a relative of Isiah Lukens, a known improver of the Girandoni Air rifle. Jonathan Lukens isn't a real life character as he is roughly around Arno's age, but Isiah Lukens is a real life historical figure that helped improve the Girandoni into the air rifle known for its role in the Lewis and Clarke Expedition. 
> 
>  
> 
> Well, thanks for reading!


	12. revenge is a dish best served with a flying turkey

 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Arno greeted amicably with a polite smile plastered on her face. Her hand fell to her sides as the man looked at her suspiciously.

“You with Lukens?” The man asked with his words terse and gruff. The crack of the door only revealing paranoid, brown eyes.

“ _Oui,_ ” Arno nodded. She retrieved the letter from her waistcoat and offered the parchment to the man. The man glared at the paper as if all the things that had gone wrong in his life were because of that one little piece of paper.

Several minutes passed did a twinge of annoyance was felt in her chest as the man still stared at the paper. Her feet tapped against the ground with increasing frequency as the man took his sweet time with the parchment.

It was awkward offering the paper for several minutes in front of the man’s face.

At this rate, Arno would have preferred that he acted like a Parisian and cussed in front of her and insulted her mother for all she cared-which was none.

I miss Paris, she thought idly to herself before blanching at what she just felt.

Did she just get homesick?

A cough interrupted her train of thought, and her attention snapped once again to the man.

“Yes?” Her tone was impatient and annoyed as she shifted slightly on her feet.

“Yes.” He finally took the paper roughly with little to no premise, “Tell Lukens they’re on to me.”

“Wha-’”

“They’re coming.” The man whispered as if telling a secret. Arno sighed, trying to understand what the devil the man just said.

She now understood why she decided to roam the outskirts of Paris and haunted the taverns of small villages.

‘I didn’t have to deal with all this-’

“Halt!” The sound of a gunshot had her freeze.

“Shit,” she cursed with a grimace on her face. Without preamble, Arno jumped onto the barrel and dug her fingers onto the ledge of a window sill. She forced her leg onto it and braced her feet onto the thin surface. It was less than a second did her hands grab onto the next handhold and pull herself onto the roof.

“Halt!” Arno heard as she jumped onto the next roof with her boots landing roughly on the tile. The piercing sound of a gunshot had her fall abruptly onto the roof of a shed in a somewhat controlled descent.

Keyword: Somewhat.

“ _Merde_ ,” she fell onto the roof of the shed. Her elbow was throbbing from the impact. Bruises were not uncommon in the practice of parkour. Still, some things she could never get used to.

Having her elbow slam against hard tiling was one of those things.

The sound of the soldiers’ hollers could still be heard, and Arno hissed as she pushed herself off the shed and landed on soft grass.

Persistent much, were they?

“Whatever you have, Monsieur Lukens,” she said with a scowl, “It better be worth it.”

Now, to lose the soldiers and find dear old Georgie.

* * *

“There you are,” Arno forced a smile on her face. The man had left her to fend for herself despite Cormac’s orders for him to escort her.

Dear old Georgie seemed to be watching two women at the moment. German, if her ears heard their words correctly.  
“Never took you for a stalker, Georgie,” she remarked nonchalantly.

“Wha-” He cut himself off at the sight of her. Blue eyes were widened, and the lack of a smirk let Arno know what he had thought.

“Arno,” he greeted, something in his eyes mildly surprised as if he didn’t expect her to come back.

Good to see you too, she thought.

“George,” she said with the same false sweetness.

“I’m not a stalker,” he said abruptly as if finally processing her remark.

“Then, sightseeing, perhaps?” Her voice was sly as she chuckled to herself.

“I need that basket.” His eyes were focused on the small, woven basket next to those women.

“You can’t get that?” Arno asked skeptically with an incredulous tone. A better question would be: Are you that incompetent?

George gave a frustrated glance at her before sighing, “There are guards.” he said as if that explained everything, “Which is where you come in.”

“Me?” she inquired innocently.

“You,” he said like he couldn’t believe it himself, “Distract those women, and I’ll handle things from there.”

“Why do you even need this basket?”

“Nosy much, are you?” he remarked, “My sister is in need of that basket. Speaking of which, we need to get you finer clothing than those rags, if you are to meet her.” he gives a scrutinizing glance at Arno.

Her eyes froze over with cold anger, and her lips curled into a menacing smile, though he could not see as she was behind him.

“Very well, _Monsieur_ ,” she said amicably.

Plastering a horrified look on her face like an actress in a theatrical drama, Arno ran over to the two women with mouth open in mock horror.

“ _Dieser Mann da drüben hat deine Mutter angerufen_ ,” she said breathlessly before letting the next several words fall from her lips. Several gasps of indignation later, Arno had convinced the women of dear old Georgie’s insult as well as focused attention on them.

Even so, It had taken surprisingly little for the women to go over marching over to dear old George.

Whistling to herself, Arno took the liberty of snatching the basket subtly from the wooden surface of the stall. She heard hollers from George’s location and decided to look back, only for the sake curiosity, of course.

She took an idle glance, to which she saw something that brought joy to her heart.

After all, seeing Georgie hit over the head by a flying turkey was very much satisfying.

Revenge is a dish best served cold, some would say. Arno would beg to differ.

Revenge was a dish best served with a _flying turkey_ smacking the wrongdoer on the head.

Arno chuckled to herself.

No one insulted her father.

**No one.**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split the chapter that involved George's sister into two parts, so that the meeting wouldn't be all too sudden. This chapter is the first part. I'll be posting the next chapter, very soon. As always, thank you so much for reading!


	13. meeting the Benedicts

"You," his voice was guttural as his brown eyes glowered at her.

"Me?" Arno asked innocently with her finger pointed herself inquiringly.

"You sent those women after me, didn't you?" he asked bluntly. He hissed as he brought a hand to touch the bruise on his forehead gingerly. Must have been from the turkey hitting his head, Arno thought.

"Arno?" Her shoulders shook as she struggled to hold the laughter in. It was just so-

Satisfying, she thought. Yes, that was the word.

"You got hit... with a flying turkey." Arno breathed out as she finally reigned in her laughter. The smirk on her lips grew wider at the sight of his indignant response.

"You're laughing because of that," George shook his head in condescension, "You have a poor sense of humor." he commented bitingly before raising his hand once again to his head.

"How am I going to explain this to Marie?" George groaned at the very prospect of doing so.

"Tell her the truth," Arno remarked before dissolving into snickers, much to his displeasure.

"First, let's deliver that blasted basket my sister wanted." He moved to leave but not before pausing, "What are you waiting for?"

"I'm heading back to the Morrigan." Arno had an ominous feeling about her fellow apprentice's sister, and perhaps, family in general. If his sister had half the attitude and smugness Georgie had, then Arno would do whatever it took to make sure she didn't encounter a sibling of George ever, "I got you the basket, didn't I?"

"Yes," George admitted before smirking, "Therefore, you might as well help me deliver it."

"I think not, Georgie." Arno remarked bluntly before adding, "What? Are you scared that some angry German women might attack you again?"

"Again with that sarcasm and blasted name-" He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat before relenting with a sigh, "I'll owe you a favor," he said with reluctance.

"A favor, you say?" Arno questioned, her voice sly and held a hint of excitement. The infinite possibilities of what that 'favor' entailed captured her interest.

"A favor," He confirmed. Arno sighed dramatically with eyes fixed on the basket, pretending to be in deep consideration.

It wasn't that this required any thought. No, she just wanted to make him wait out of sheer pettiness, to which Arno had no shame in admitting.

After all, it was too irresistible to say no to his deal.

"You have yourself a deal, Benedict." Something told her that meeting this sister of his was a bad idea. However, if things went south, well, there was always that favor to cash in.

* * *

 

"Sister," George greeted as the door opened to reveal a young girl with icy blue eyes and a smirk on her face, filled with the same smugness.

 _It runs in the family_ , Arno thought dryly. She was already beginning to regret agreeing to the deal. The only thing that kept her from leaving would be rude to the host. The tempting prospect of Georgie owing her a favor helped plant her feet on the ground.

"Brother," The sister greeted in return with eyes steady as they slid to Arno, "I see you have brought company."

"She's Shay's apprentice," He explained.

"Please allow me to introduce myself, _mademoiselle_ ," Arno stepped forward with a polite smile painting her lips, "The name is Arno Dorian. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh?" She said with an amused look in her eyes, the smirk on her thin lips growing wider, "This one has quite the adorable accent, brother."

George suddenly paled slightly to which Arno looked at him confusedly at. Why did he look like Marie was going to rip a tooth out of him?

"I think Miss Dorian needs to retire-"

"Oh, but we couldn't have her miss dinner, now could we, brother?" His sister's eyes narrowed minusculely, and her voice lowered dangerously. At this point, Arno honestly did want to leave, no matter what Georgie offered. In the beginning, she had no intention of getting caught in the middle of a spat between the two Benedict siblings.

"I think," Arno said carefully as if treading on thin ice, "Monsieur Cormac is waiting for my presence on the Morrigan."

"Surely, what business you have with him could wait until after dinner. From what I've heard, Cormac's been conducting business with several of his associates."

"He works with other mercenaries?"

"Mercenaries?" George's sister said out loud before chuckling to herself with amusement dancing in her eyes, "Yes, he works with mercenaries."

"I see," Arno said slowly with suspicion in her eyes, knowing that her companion's sister had just revealed something in her words.

The host suddenly clapped her hands together lightly, "Where are my manners? Please do come in. Dinner is already on the table."

Hesitantly, George walked through the door as his sister waited by the hall. Arno soon followed suit with dread creeping on herself.

Boots stepped onto crimson, lush, ornate carpet noiselessly as the two made their way to the dining room. Arno noted the rather simplistic yet sophisticated interior. It was different in comparison to the de la Serre estate and the other households of French nobles.

"You don't look impressed," George whispered lowly to her as he leaned closer. His eyes were cautious yet held a hint of playfulness as they stared at her.

"I'm not," she said simply, "Although, I am surprised. But I suppose that it's fitting. Like the house, it's bigger in imagination than in size. Just like you."

"It's... understandable that you're upset. But you don't need to insult me personally."

"I thought that was the purpose of insults."

"You are impossible." He scowled at her with irritation marring his voice. Arno held back a grin at his reaction.

 _Finally_ , she thought with vindictive satisfaction.

If she were going to be miserable, so would he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. I'll be updating much more frequently from now on as I am almost off antibiotics for an ear infection I had. It'll be easier to focus now as that particular health issue of mine is mostly done. Feel free to share your thoughts on this chapter. Thanks for reading!


	14. a poisoned smile

“Please do take a seat, Miss Dorian.” His sister gestured to an unoccupied seat the rather large table. The dining table was ornate in its elegant centerpiece composing its center and perfectly aligned silverware and plates. Even the spaces in front of seats that had plates of hot, fresh food were orderly and clean.

Speaking of those seats…

“May I inquire if you have guests at the moment?” Arno asked politely. George’s sister only smiled languidly at her question. Still, something about the motion of the girl’s lips was like that of a snake.

“Oh,” The word fell from the girl’s lips like a soft sigh, “They are occupied for the moment. Speaking of such things, I must attend to them.” The various layers of her dress brushed lightly against the lush, crimson carpet as her steps carried her closer to the door, “Please do enjoy your meal, Miss Dorian, and don’t mind my brother. He is always anxious to leave home.”

With that said, the girl opened the door leading to the hall with a twist of her wrist before softly closing it behind her. Arno breathed out and turned to the table only to be greeted with the sight of George sampling the delectable wine at the table.

“Don’t tell me you’re already drunk,” Disbelief evident in her voice as she stated the words. The crimson flush across his cheeks and somewhat glazed look in his eyes was a telltale sign.  
“Slightly,” he merely said, emphasizing his words by having his thumb and finger be only inches apart.

“Did you drink water your entire life?”

“It’s the only thing safe to drink.”

“Spoiled,” Arno muttered under her breath with no heat in her words. She couldn’t envy someone who rarely tasted alcohol in his own home.

“Want some?” George suddenly asked with a sober countenance. Arno paused, pondering if he was drunk or sober. She soon dismissed the thought as it was of no importance, “Are you sure?” he added.

“Why not,” She accepted the proffered glass. The dark, crimson liquid swirled in the glass with her movements.

“I am terrified of my sister,” Her companion commented idly as he continued to sip his wine. Arno swallowed back the liquid of her own glass as she processed his words.

“Why?”

He gave her a pointed look, haunted almost, “She took up the family trade.” he stated tiredly.

“And that is not a good thing?” The Benedicts were merchants, right? Arno couldn’t see why Elizabeth getting involved would necessarily be something this haunting for her companion.

“I don’t know.” He laughed to himself, eyes crinkling in what could not have been mirth. His tight grip on the cup made his hand tremble as it turned white. In the midst of it all, he chuckled to himself. Arno felt tempted to step back at what was apparently a private moment- _and possibly a mental breakdown_.

The silence that settled between them in the air had Arno glancing around somewhat awkwardly. She should have paid closer attention to all those social lessons and etiquette taught to her as a child. Although, she doubted that any one of those teachings could have helped her on how to comfort a person.

 _If he starts crying, I’m going to run_ , she thought.

Arno held in a sigh as she seated herself on a-previously- occupied chair next to Georgie. Her fingers tapped on the table repeatedly as she tried to drown out the silence.

“We should go back to the Morrigan.” He said suddenly. Arno nearly shoved back the chair in her haste to stand. Finally, was the word on her mind, “And see Marie.” he added as an afterthought with nonchalance in his eyes.

“Why?” A part of her was almost afraid to ask.

“Knowing my sister, she poisoned us.”

“That’s nic-” She cut herself off at the second to last word of his statement. Only then did Arno begin to notice that her skin under the collar of her shirt was hot and most likely flushed. Her skin felt irritated and the urge to scratch at random patches of skin suddenly awakened.

“Oh, you noticed just now.” The fragile look he once had was replaced by a smug one as he smirked, “Oblivious much, are you?”

“Georgie, you so-” Arno gnashed her teeth together as a spasm wrecked through her hand.

“What did you… do to me?” She demanded lowly, nearly growling.

“My sister, Elizabeth.” The bastard corrected quickly. His hands hauled her up on shaky legs as he basically started dragging her to the door. 

“Not much of a difference,” Arno scoffed, “You both come from the same mother, don’t you?”

He dropped her.

Perhaps, she deserved it- _partially, at the very most._

But, that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t kick him off the Morrigan.

* * *

“I take it that Dorian met your sister, Georgie,” Marie remarked dryly as she cast an unimpressed eye on Arno as she stumbled along with her arm slung across his back.

“You think?” George shot a pointed look at her as he huffed, "Could you hurry? She isn't getting any lighter."

“Brats,” Marie sighed with exasperation in her voice, “I’ll get out the antidotes.”

“Can you do that before she kicks me off the Morrigan?”

“She actually used that as a threat,” The doctor mused aloud with a light smirk betraying her amusement towards the matter. 

“Not the point, Marie.”

“What happened to ‘Doc’?”

“Must I repeat myself?” She glared at him once before sighing. The medicine chest was in her room in the ship’s lower deck,  
Try not to anger her in the meantime. The poor girl doesn’t need any more excitement in her current state.” Marie added.

“I’ll try, Doc.” George addressed her by the nickname as he tried to usher her towards the medicine chest. Something told the doctor that he wouldn't listen. 

Typical.

* * *

Marie gave the glass vial filled with the antidote a good shake before letting the solution settle. The dark green liquid almost glistened in the sunlight. It’s property giving a slight hint to its true, main ingredient.

 _Best not to tell the girl_ , Marie thought.

Her ears perked at the sound of a splash coming from the left side of the ship. It was soon followed by a familiar outraged yell and a satisfied laugh. Her attention soon lent towards the incident as she approached the scene with interest in her eyes. For all her weakness in her current state, Arno sure did have a significant amount of strength to quite literally kick the boy off the Morrigan.

“I thought I told you to not anger her, Georgie,” Marie commented amusedly. Glaring balefully up at her like a drowning rat, he only scowled at her.

“Try drinking this in one sip,” Marie advised as she extended the vial in one hand to the ailing girl. Arno stared warily at her-for good reason too- before accepting the antidote. Tugging the cork out, she tilted her head back and downed the contents of the vial in one swallow.

 _Perhaps, I should have told her to pinch her nose_ , Marie idly thought. This thought was soon followed by the sputtering gasp that the girl made.


	15. l'ours polaire

Arno dreaded-no feared the day Marie would cook. Because, in the end, that medicine-if that dastardly substance could qualify as such-somehow tasted worse than water from the filthy depths of the Seine.

Perhaps, it wasn’t quite fair to judge the good doctor’s cooking based on her medicine. However, the look of unadulterated horror that blanketed Benedict’s face told her enough.

“...Are you praying?” Arno looked down at the man who had his head bowed and hands clasped together.

The brief notion of Benedict being Catholic crossed her mind. Although, it could very well be any other religion such as those of the Protestant kind.

“In the name of the Father of-” Georgie cut himself off, glancing back to the helm as if he expected some sort of entity to attack him, “Mercy. In the name of the Father of Mercy, we pray.”

“The Father of Mercy,” Arno let the name hang in the air, as the man sighed, “Is that a deity?”

“In a sense, yes.” Georgie then stared at their surroundings as if he was trying to find something remotely interesting in the seemingly endless waters, “Are you aware of my task involving you?” Arno only shook her head in response, leaning against the wooden railing.

“Cormac approached me earlier with the intent of having me show you the wonders of the North Atlantic,” he stated frankly, with sarcasm dripping from his voice at the ‘wonders.’

“How bad could it possibly be?” Arno had heard the sailors’ accounts of the landscape and “rich scenery” there.

He only stared at her as if she declared the King was, in fact, a witch cackling as he flew throughout Paris.

How could it possibly be?

As Lady Fortuna declared, those words were accursed.

They had gotten caught in a storm shortly after their arrival in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. With the Morrigan’s resident Irishman hollering orders from the wheel and the ship’s crew struggling not to be thrown overboard from waves battering the ship, Arno had chosen to take refuge in her current stay of quarters.

“Did Master Cormac not state ‘all hands on deck’?” A familiar voice questioned with a, dare she say, conceited tone.

“Your inner connard is coming out, Georgie.” Arno glanced up from her seated place at her to cot to lay eyes on the sorry sight he presented.

Like a drowned rat, she thought.

“I take it, your mother neglected to teach you manners.” Arno only sighed at the attempted insult. This was getting rather tiresome with how petty they both were being to each other. Day after day, they would run into each other and squabble until Marie threatened them whilst brandishing a large knife that Arno had no business knowing its purpose for.

Alas, she couldn’t stop her next words from falling off her lips.

“Monsieur de la Serre has more than made up in teaching etiquette for me as a child.” Arno watched as the tense shoulders of the man in front of her relaxed as if he himself deflated with a harsh sigh.

“This is getting rather childish, is it not?”  
“Oui.”

“I can’t stop being a bastard at times to you, but I’ll try to reign it back to when your behavior warrants it.”

Resisting the temptation to inquire on just how many times her behavior warranted that, Arno only forced a faux, polite smile-derived from years of her governess smacking it into her- and nodded.

A truce, it was. Albeit more in the sense that they both wouldn’t throw each other off the Morrigan as they would likely drown or die.

From Marie’s cooking, Arno added somberly.

  
“Rise and shine, Arno.” The said person could only groan at the sound of his voice grating against her ears.

“Shut it, Benedict.” She gritted out, trying to refrain from saying words untoward to the man.

“Afraid not. Captain’s orders.” The annoying bastard said rather gleefully albeit curtly.

Arno could only sigh as she pushed herself from the cot, shrugging the fur skins off. There was no need to be dressed as she had slept in yesterday’s clothes. Between Monsieur Cormac possibly barging in at any given moment and Georgie haunting the quarters every now and then, Arno took the safer route.

“Tell Master Cormac I’ll be on deck in a moment.” Benedict only clucked his tongue.

“Cormac’s already departed to attend to business,” he explained as he narrowed his eyes rather slyly at her, “Eager to please, are you?”

Keeping in mind the ‘truce,’ Arno wouldn’t let herself bristle from the implication, “Not particularly. I’ve been bored out of my mind.” With Shay Cormac nary talking much less training her, Arno had only books and shooting practice to busy herself with. Although, the latter was something she could only do once every several days under Nathaniel Gist.

The American had taken it upon himself to teach her to the workings of the American Long Rifle and the steps needing to be followed through in loading, aiming, and firing.

The rifle was undoubtedly different from the airguns she would hunt with at the de la Serre estate, but interesting nonetheless.

Still, Nathaniel Gist wasn’t an expert shooter, and there was only so much that he could teach her before the instruction became commentary and casual conversation. As his apprentice, Arno would have expected to receive even a small hint of direction from Shay Cormac. Alas, that wasn’t to be as he was either an incredibly busy man or the Irishman was avoiding her.

Neither bode well for the prospect of being relieved of her boredom.

A sigh broke her sleep-hazed attention from her thoughts.

“Must I repeat myself?” An impatient voice said exasperatedly.

Once again resisting the temptation to throw him overboard into the icy waters, Arno stood from the cot only to catch a soft bundle thrown her way.

“Clothes from Father dearest won’t help you out here, Dorian,” Benedict said briskly with an impatient glance sent her way. Arno only paused, mulling over the callous comment.

Once a bastard, always a bastard.

Perhaps, it was best if she ignored Benedict’s comments as he may very well be tired of her soon enough. Like a snobby noble child bullying a meek peasant, Benedict would eventually too ignore her and turn his attention and lovely comments elsewhere.

Arno laid out the clothing thrown at her on the cot. The frock coat consisted of black fabric with crimson trim. It differed greatly from the fanciful and extravagant frock coats of Versailles that Arno had laid eyes on many times. But, the fabric was warm and weighty, obviously meant for cool weather.

She shrugged on the coat before pulling it by the lapels to straighten it. It was rather fitting to her form as it must have been tailored for a woman. Arno wondered if the coat belonged to Marie Barnes.

Her fingers deftly buttoned up the frock coat from the waist up, leaving the bottom portion hanging off her waist. She opened the door with one hand, straightening the coat with another.

Harsh light glared into her eyes before she looked down to gaze upon the many barrels and crates littering the deck. Trade, was one word that came to mind. There was a town nearby supposedly if what she heard from the crew was true. Then, by ‘business,’ perhaps Shay Cormac was doing trade or mercenary work.

Following Benedict across the ship to the front, she stepped onto the wide wooden plank that the gangway consisted of. Perhaps, the man intended for her to do paperwork like helping to manage a portion of his fleet. And the ordered firearms and rifle training was put in place for her to defend herself due to his line of work.

Well, Arno thought rather amusedly, at least her financial future as a merchant was secure.

After all, Monsieur de la Serre had always stressed the need for her to find an actual occupation, instead of roaming the countryside and haunting the taverns there.

Apparently, there was a bountiful amount of things that this land had to offer, one of them being seal carcasses, as Benedict said.

Arno stared at the gray finned creature lying motionless on the ground. Chunks of flesh had been ripped from its body with streaks of crimson littering the ground below it. Indeed, it had been a while since she had gone hunting and seen predatory animals. But, she knew enough from her youth to know this was the work of a-

“Bear.”

Benedict did always say the most delightful things, she thought.

No rifle, no weapons, she noted on her person. The only one carrying a firearm was Benedict, and that one looked eerily similar to the one Monsieur Cormac carried.

Marie was going to murder him if Cormac didn’t get to him first.

“Left front pocket,” he stated rather calmly as if they weren’t about to get mauled by the bear. He tossed the rifle at her with a seemingly indifferent carelessness. Arno caught it quickly with one hand, fingers digging into the wooden surface of the rifle.

It felt akin to the airguns she handled at the de la Serre Estate.  
Her other hand stuffed itself in her left front pocket before she withrew only to find a spherical object in hand.

Noting the rather peculiar attachment to the rifle and the object in hand, Arno came to only one conclusion.

Hand mortar.

In her youth, Arno had pestered her firearms instructor on many different things, one of them being hand mortars. The man had called such a thing “brutish” with the devastating wounds it inflicted. Nonetheless, he caved to Arno’s insistent imploring and described the general concept of it all, including how to aim.

Aim from atop the shoulder, whilst calculating where the grenade will land.

Alas, the rifle appeared to be a combination weapon of both a hand mortar and an air rifle.

Aim from the hip, she made an educated guess. Truly, not the best of things to do in such a situation.

Still, she’d quite literally give it a shot.

Loading the grenade in hopefully the right manner, Arno glanced to her right only to pause at the sight she saw.

Low and behold George Benedict running towards her with a beast nipping at his heels.

Left, she motioned with one hand whilst aiming the hand mortar.

Ready.

The coattails of Benedict was still visible.

Aim.

He would survive, Arno reasoned. Mayhap, his hearing damaged and bruised. Minor issues.

Fire.

 

Arno stood there in surprise, still aiming her rifle, at the beast. A sickening purple gas enveloped the creature as it stumbled back from the fumes. Both wary yet impressed, Arno observed the last gasping pants of the beast.

Poison.

And a fast-acting on at that.

It was in that moment, Arno was both wary yet impressed by Shay Cormac.

Running footsteps coming closer had Arno looking up only to see Benedict already kicking at the fallen beast with a despairing snear, “Well, would you look at that. Cormac’s still upgrading his arsenal.

“Monsieur Cormac has formidable weapons,” Arno commented. This combination weapon was surely the only one in existence, likely tailored for a specific person perhaps to even Shay Cormac himself. And it wasn’t simply the rifle, Arno thought.

No, she had seen the weaponry on his person. Pistols holstered at his sides along with a sword and dagger. The rifle secured at his back had only reinforced the thought Arno briefly had in mind.

The only people Arno knew to be armed so well were those looking-no expecting a fight.

Alas, she should have known earlier that the Irishman was no simple merchant but a mercenary.

“Well,” Arno said aloud into the air, “Which one of us is going to obtain a lovely pelt?” Benedict gave the animal an appraising glance before sighing.

“I don’t want to skin the damn beast. I’d be here till sundown.” He irritably said, still perturbed by his person being chased by the beast. Arno gave him a skeptical look. How could someone take an entire day to skin one creature, even a bear?

“Mayhap, you don’t know how to?” Arno inquired innocently. She held in a fit of laughter at the huff Benedict let out.

It appeared one could take revenge in miniscule yet satisfactory ways, after all.

“I’d would inquire the same thing of you.”

“Alas, I don’t,” Arno admitted easily, “I’ve heard several things from drunken hunters at tavern.” Benedict only sighed once more, indifference in his visage.

“Good luck, then.” He then paused, wincing minisculey. Arno watched in puzzled amusement as the American would murmur something about ‘damn making luck’ under his breath.

 

“I reckon that Lukens fellow was jesting, Dorian,” Benedict said with a sullen voice. Although, it appeared that he desired for his words to be true, in actuality. The none too subtle glances at the large white pelt bundled carefully in her arms told her that much. Still, it could be poisoning from Marie’s food talking.

Pea soup, Arno recalled with a shudder. That unholy monstrosity couldn’t be called food. The broth tasted like the Seine on its worst days with a dash of dead vermin in it.

Or, she thought. Benedict’s recent sullen mood could be the result of his theft of Monsieur Cormac’s rifle. Arno could have sworn he never looked the same way at Shay Cormac again after departing with him offship for an entire day in the name of “a training session.”

I wouldn’t envy him, Marie said with a knowing look in her eye. Arno had glanced away. Was she that obvious in wanting to learn more of dual weaponry?

“I’ll sell this to a different vendor, then.” Arno merely answered in return. It would be enough money to get a higher-quality rifle or perhaps even some new outfitting alongside it.

She pushed the broken door of Lukens’ shop, listening as it creaked rather sharply.

“This is the shop?” Benedict inquired with a little condescension and disbelief mingling in his voice.

“Oui,” Arno gestured to the numerous rifles still laid up on the way in an organized display, “Do not be mistaken. Lukens’ inventory includes the most exotic and rare of weaponry.”

“Ah, it’s you. Came back already, did you?” A familiar voice said aloud, as the door slammed from the back of the shop. The brown hair Lukens tied back was tinged lightly at the tips with black. She could faintly detect the slighest hint of gunpowder, the pungent smell practically pervading into the room.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Lukens. And yes, I have brought a gift for you as well.” She laid the wrapped bundle of the pelt out on the wooden counter. Reaching out to unwrap the bundle, Lukens inspected the gift with one critical eye.

“Impressive. Not a single bullet wound scarring the pelt nor marks of stabbing,” Jonathan Lukens said easily, “Tell me. How were you able to down a beast such as this without using bullets or knives?”

“Gas. Poisonous gas.” Arno answered in turn. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Benedict tense suddenly. The look in Jonathan Lukens’ eyes suddenly shifted to that of interest.

“Oh? Do tell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, folks! It's been a while since I posted a chapter for this story. I'm really sorry about that. I didn't want to end up fully dropping the stories in this AU so I decided to take some time off from writing chapters and instead plan things out. It's a different approach than from what I normally do. However, there still is breathing room so to say in writing the story. Anyways, now that I have planned things out more fully, updates will be up a lot more often. 
> 
> To move onto a slightly related topic, I have several announcements to make for this AU verse. First, I have deleted some stories in order to rewrite them at a later notice. They will be posted once again in the future. Second, Ouroboros is put on hold for the moment. The planning for the story made things change so I will be rewriting that around the time I finish writing a majority of Omnia. Thirdly, the AU verse just got extended in planning to three stories. 
> 
> On another note, pea soup was used on 18th century naval ships. The drinking water in those ships tended to taste bad, hence Arno's reference to the Seine. Also, I hope to post the next chapter (which will focus on Shay & Arno interacting with one another) this Saturday. However, it may take a week at the very most as I want to maintain quality in writing chapters.
> 
> The plot is going to start up in several chapters. But, for now, characters getting familiar with each other is what's going to happen. Well, thanks for your patience and sticking around! I greatly appreciate it. Feel free to leave a comment below with your thoughts on this chapter or story, as long as you're at least civil about it.


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